The Last Dog on Earth by Daniel Ehrenhaft

food and mail. It was five miles each way, half on roads, half on mountain trails. Four hours total of fresh mountain air and sunshine. Or rain. But not today.
    Jasmine loved it. She loved visiting Joe Bixby's general store. Her tail would start wagging about a hundred yards away because she could smell Sam—Joe Bixby's big, rangy, blue-eyed Siberian husky. The second she burst through the door, she and Sam would start jumping on each other and barking. They would scurry around the aisles and chase each other while Westerly loaded up his backpack. And when they were too tired to keep playing, Joe Bixby would give them each a little treat: a piece of salami, a hunk of cheese. It was always enough to perk Jasmine up for the walk home.
    That Wednesday afternoon hike to town was pretty much the only time Westerly enjoyed dealing with other human beings. Or
one
human being, anyway. Joe was a decent sort. Like most of the people in town, he was scruffy and rugged. He understood that Westerly preferred to be left alone. He wasn't much of a talker himself.
    “So,” Westerly said to Jasmine. He grunted a little under the weight of the backpack as he walked around the side of the house. “Who do you think could be calling me?”
    Jasmine growled, then ran up the porch steps. She stumbled a little at the top. She nearly lost her balance, her eyes darting between Westerly and the screen door.
    Westerly grinned at her. She wasn't a huge fan of the phone, either.
    “Don't worry about it, Jazz,” he said. He trudged up behind her, slinging the pack off his shoulder and unlocking the door. “We'll let the machine pick up.”
    Truth be told, he would have let the machine pick up no matter what. He always screened his calls. Usually it was just a salesperson wanting Westerly to subscribe to
Time
or to buy a cell phone or some other nonsense. People who knew Westerly knew better than to call him. E-mails or letters were the best ways to communicate.
    The machine clicked.
    Westerly stood next to Jasmine and rubbed the back of her neck, staring at the little black box beside the phone.
    “You've reached Dr. Craig Westerly,” the machine announced. “Leave a message.”
    There was a beep.
    “Craig, it's Harold. If you're there, pick up.”
    Harold?
    Westerly's stomach dropped. Harold would never, ever call him. Not unless—
    He darted forward and picked up the phone.
    “Hello? I'm here. Harold?”
    “Craig,” Harold replied. His voice sounded strangely high-pitched. He exhaled. “We've got a problem.”
    Westerly stared out the window at the evergreen tree. “What's up?”
    “We need your paper on prion diseases,” Harold said. “The situation here has changed.”
    “Didn't you get my e-mail?” Westerly asked. He drummed his fingers on his jeans. “I couldn't find it. I looked all over.” He really
had
searched high and low for the paper. But after a couple of hours of rummaging through dusty old boxes and file cabinets, he remembered that he'd tossed it out years ago. The only papers he'd kept were those having to do with his
new
research—like inventing an inhalable flu vaccine.
    “Yes, I received your e-mail,” Harold said. “I just assumed you didn't want to be bothered. I figured you were still angry.”
    Why would I be angry?
Westerly wanted to say.
Oh, right. Because you fired me seven years ago just for spite.
    “Craig?” Harold asked.
    “If I had found it, I would have sent it to you,” Westerly said.
    “You always wanted to be a respected scientist, didn't you?” Harold asked.
    Westerly frowned into the phone. “What's that supposed to mean?”
    “I'm offering you a chance to make that happen,” Harold said. “I'm offering you a chance to come back to the university.”
    “Excuse me?” Westerly couldn't quite grasp what he was hearing.
    “That's right. It's your choice. I'm giving you the opportunity to join us again.”
    Westerly opened his mouth. Then he closed it. His throat was dry. Never in